


Sorry, Right Number

by zoemargaret



Series: Manager Verse [4]
Category: Football RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemargaret/pseuds/zoemargaret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phone sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry, Right Number

 

Bojan eyes his phone, nervously chewing his lip. He's almost dialed the number three times, flipping his phone shut before it connects each time. Should he? He looks at the empty bed next to his. Raúl's gone out dancing with the others but Bojan had opted out, pleading a strain from training. He's got at least a couple hours to himself.

Fuck it. He flips the phone open and hits send. He listens to it ring.

"Hello?" Pep's warm voice answers. Bojan inhales sharply, cock already thickening just at the sound of his voice.

"Are you alone?" he asks, voice high and breathy.

Pep inhales sharply and utters a terse, "No."

"Oh!" Flustered, Bojan stammers, "I'm sorry, I'll call back."

"No!" Pep's quick bark startles Bojan even more and he almost drops the phone. "No, don't. Give me a minute." There's a rustling and the faint sound of voices receding. After a long moment Pep's back on the line. "Kiki," he murmurs. "It's lovely to hear from you."

The affection in his voice is enough to make Bojan gasp for breath, covering his mouth so he can't be heard. He suddenly misses him so much it's a physical pain in his gut. "Pep," he mouths the words against his hand, and then clears his throat and removes his hand to say, "I missed you too."

Pep chuckles throatily and Bojan blushes. Somehow Pep always knows, even half a continent away. To prevent any further embarrassment he asks, "So are you alone now?" Pep hums an affirmative. Bojan slides a hand into his track pants to grab his cock. "So am I."

"Really?" Pep's still amused, but with an extra edge now. Bojan can just picture him, sprawled in his chair behind his desk.

"Are you in your office?" he asks abruptly.

A soft chuckle. "Kiki, I don't actually live at Camp Nou," Pep says fondly. "I'm at home, in my office."

"Yeah?" Bojan encourages him, pushing up to slide his pants down. He kicks out of them and lies back on his bed and puts the phone on speaker.

"Hmm. I'm sitting behind my desk," Pep tells him, voice growing lower with every word.

"Is it like the desk you fucked me on?" Bojan asks innocently. If Pep were there, he'd be fluttering his eyelashes; Bojan knows Pep's kink probably a little better than Pep likes to realize.

"Kiki..." Pep drawls in amused lust. "Yes. Very much like that desk."

"Yeah? Could you fuck me on it?" Bojan purrs, planting his feet on the bed and rocking up into his fist. "Could you throw me down and push into me until the whole Camp Nou hears me scream for you?"

"Fuck," Pep curses harshly. "Bojan, you filthy little..."

"Pep, I'm stroking my cock. It's so red and wet, hear it?" He brings his hand to his mouth and slurps lewdly on his fingers, the sound loud and shocking in the quiet hotel room. "I wish it was your cock I was tasting," he says wistfully. "You taste so good Pep. When we come back can I suck your cock again?"

Pep gives a strangled chuckle. "Do you really think I'd say no?" There's a muffled grunt and the sound of fabric sliding down thighs.

"Are you taking your pants off?" Bojan asks. "I'm already naked. I'm pinching," he pauses to give a gasp of pained pleasure, "my nipples. He turns his head and looks at the phone. "What are you doing?" he asks. "Am I making you hard?"

"Yes," Pep says, voice so low it makes Bojan shiver. "My fist is wrapped around my cock and I'm remembering your beautiful lips wrapped around me, trying so hard not to gag."

Bojan whines and pushes into his fist, low liquid feel of _sex_ spreading through his body. "Fuck! Was I good?"

"So good, Kiki. I wanted to keep you there. Everytime I have to do an interview, have you there naked under my desk, begging for my cock."

"Pep," Bojan gasps.

"Are you close?" Pep asks sharply. Bojan gives a whine of assent. "Not yet," Pep orders. "Bojan, do not come yet." Years of conditioning mean that Bojan is grabbing his cock and squeezing before he can even think about it. He whines again, in pain this time. "Good boy," Pep croons.

"Pep!" Bojan pouts even though he knows the other man can't see him. "Please, let me. I can come again." Three weeks ago he would have turned beet red and bitten out his tongue before admitting that, but now he writhes on the bed, hoping that Pep will sense his desperation.

"Oh I know," Pep says in dark amusement. "But you have a game tomorrow, and what kind of a manager would I be if I let you wear yourself out?"

"Fine," Bojan huffs. He thinks about the lineup tomorrow, running over situations in his head till his arousal is less urgent.

Pep again reads him perfectly. "Calmer? Good. I don't suppose you brought your little purple toy?"

Bojan tenses in shamed anticipation but has to admit, "No. I didn't want anyone to find it."

"As your manager I'm happy to hear that," Pep says dryly. "But right now I'm not so pleased."

"Sorry," Bojan murmurs, genuinely regretful. He really can't bring that along on call ups, not with all the traveling and room sharing they do.

"We'll improvise," Pep promises and Bojan gives a delighted little wiggle, hotel comforter scratchy against his back. "Put your fingers in your mouth," Pep orders. "Get them wet." Bojan does so, slurping loudly without being told. "Fuck Kiki," Pep says, voice unexpectedly soft. "I can just see you doing that, all cheekbones and lips and hungry green eyes." Bojan moans in agreement around his fingers. "On your side facing the phone," Pep commands. Bojan hurriedly obeys, still sucking on his fingers like his life depended on it.

"Good boy," Pep praises him. "Now, reach around and trace your hole with one finger. No penetration, just stroke yourself." Bojan whines but does as he's told, tracing circles around his hole, shivering at the intense sensation. He pushes back against his finger, uttering soft pleading sounds.

Pep lets him suffer for several long moments. "One finger in yourself, slowly," he says, voice tightly controlled. "Tell me how it feels, Bojan."

"Fuck," Bojan moans. "It feels so good but it's not enough Pep. Please, please can I put more in?"

"Not yet," Pep tells him. "Tell me more."

"It feels so good," he whines as he twists his finger. He hits that one spot and moans gutturally. "Fuck." The room is suddenly suffocating from just one finger and Pep's voice, like liquid sex in his ear. "I'm stroking and circling and it feels so good, so much better than just jerking off," he gasps. He starts stroking his cock, awkwardly coordinating with the thrusts of his finger.

There's a long drawn out moan, Pep's iron control suddenly breaking. The noise makes Bojan jam his finger into himself, eliciting a pained yelp. "Another finger," Pep gasps. "Stretch yourself for me, for my cock."

He follows orders, scissoring his fingers. "It's so good, but it's not you," he gasps. "Pep, please. Fuck me, fuck me!"

"Another finger," Pep grits out. Bojan can see his face, tense and lined with pleasure. "Fuck yourself Bojan."

Bojan does so, all three fingers now, the burning stretch deliciously painful. He's yanking at his cock now, all finesse gone. "I'm so close Pep," he says, voice high and desperate. "Please please please!"

Pep's gasping now too, little grunts that are unbearably sexy. It only ratchets Bojan higher, tighter. He's pushing back against his fingers now, imagining Pep's thick cock, his warm weight behind him. "Pep!" he cries. "Please!"

"Come for me," Pep commands.

Bojan arches back and gives into his orgasm. He's vaguely aware of digging his head back into the pillow and of panting into the phone, but it's all subsumed by the climax sweeping through his body. He gradually realizes that Pep is groaning on the other end of the phone, uttered "Fucks," and groans that make him twitch and his fist clench around his cock. "Fuck!" he cries out shrilly, the motion enough to wring another spasm of orgasm from him.

"Fuck," Pep mutters hoarsely, heartfelt.

"Yeah," Bojan agrees, stretching luxuriously against the bed. He fills like he's overflowing his skin, fully present and happy in his body. He stretches his arms above his head and arches his back. "Hmm. That was good."

Pep gives a ragged laugh. "Yes." He's silent for a moment, then a long sigh. "Bojan Krkic, you will be the death of me." He doesn't sound upset or even worried. Bojan's throat tightens unexpectedly and he has to take several deep breaths.

"See you in a month?" he asks, almost timidly. Only once he's asked does he realize he's holding his breath. Of course he's going to see him in a month, Barca training starts in July. But they both know that's not what he's asking.

There's a moment of silence on the line. Then, "See you in a month, Kiki."

 


End file.
